


3rd Of November

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Comfort/Angst, Family Drama, Gen, Hangover, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, POV John Winchester, Pre-Series, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: On the 2nd of November, John Winchester got drunk.On the 3rd of November he has to face the consequences.





	3rd Of November

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains implied violence\child abuse, if it may offend, please don't read.  
> There are also some f-words, as we're dealing with John Winchester here.

_Old Sorrow, Nebraska, 1994_

 

This is hell. Has to be.

The sounds drilling through his ears and straight into his brain, the too-bright light, even behind closed lids. And that headache, the splitting, horrible, magnificent headache. It's so intense that he wants to vomit all his guts out, but is too afraid to do so because every movement sends another stake of red-hot pain through his skull.

"Dad?" He moans when even that soft-spoken word feels like thunder to his over-sensitive ears. There's a light touch that he somehow registers through the screaming pain. "Dad, wake up."

He manages to swim a bit upward in the swamp of pain, enough to say, or at least growl, "bright."

"Right. Sorry," there are rustling noises, and the light dims considerably. He waits for a wave of pain to pass over him before risking to crack his eyes open. He shuts them almost immediately when the faint light proves to still be too much for him to handle, but he thinks he can try again in a minute or so.

Another sickening wave of pain washes from his stomach to his head, leaving him panting a little. He tries to suck in some air; it tastes stale and dusty, but it does help to clear his head some. He breathes in again and this time manages to open his eyes.

At first, he doesn’t know where he is. Right in front of him is a coffee table and beyond that a TV on a dresser near a wall covered in wallpaper that might have been nice once, but now just seems forlorn in the dusky light. A motel room, then. He can tell he is on a couch and not a bed, because under his cheek he can feel the ragged cover of the arm, and not smooth pillowcase. The motel's name surfaces without being called upon – "Sunny Ridge", or was it "Sun & Bridge"? Who the hell cares. He closes his eyes as another wave of pain rises, but it's weaker this time and doesn't make him want to put a bullet through his brains just to get rid of it.

He openes his eyes when he hears a little clank. A glass of water now perches on the table in front of him, along with two white pills. Then somebody crouches between him and the table.

"Dad, can you sit up? Take the Aspirin."

Aspirin sounds heavenly right now, and the water looks like it's actually _glowing_ in its murky glass. He tries to move, and both nausea and headache sharply make themselves known, trying to knock him back down. He feels hands grabbing him to help him up, they're not large but they're strong and determined. He inhales and clenches his jaws and is finally sitting up. Dizziness hits him, so hard it makes him almost topple over, but the hands are still on him, steadying him in place until the dizziness subsides.

The hands are gone for a moment, and then the glass of water is pressed into his palm and he grabs it automatically. The pills are shoved between the fingers of his other hand. He remembers what to do with them, he can give himself that. He swallows both pills at once, washing them down with the water. Suddenly he realizes how dry his throat is. He thrusts the empty glass forward. "More water."

"Sam, get me that water bottle."

A screech of chair-legs on the floor, probably being pushed back, a small voice muttering, "get his own stupid water," a few more rustling sounds, and the glass is taken from his hand and replaced with a plastic bottle. He chugs the water down, not even pausing to breathe. Oxygen doesn't seem as important as water right now.

When the bottle is empty he lets it fall from his hand and gasps for air. His breathing calms down slowly, and so does the headache. It's still very much there, pounding behind his eyballs, but it's bearable now, not the hellish torment it had been.

A white cup is set on the table before him, and the smell of fresh coffee drifts up and seems to clear his airways and tune his brain a bit back to normal. He takes a sip. It's hot and strong and bitter, just the way he likes it, and it makes him feel like a human being again. He's a bit surprised to find the cup empty so soon. He needs a refill.

He braces his hands on the couch and uses them to push himself up. For a minute the dizziness is back, but this time it fades much quicker, and he picks up the cup and turns to the kitchenette area of the motel room.

Sammy is sitting at the table, munching on something, a half-full glass of milk by his plate. Dean turns away from the counter and loads a fresh stack of pancakes onto Sam's syrup-smudged plate. Dean sees him approaching and grabs the coffee pot. His cup is full again even before he is wholly settled into his chair.

He sips slowly as Dean puts a plate in front of him. "Didn't think you'd want pancakes, with the hangover and all. This you'll be able to keep down." Two pieces of plain toast. Yeah, that and coffee and some more time for the Aspirin to take full effect and he'll be good to go.

Dean finally sits down with his own stack of pancakes – surprisingly, smaller than Sam's – and digs in. Over the rim of his cup he watches his eldest; Dean usually has a healthy appetite, but now he takes small bites and chews slowly, almost gingerly. And then he sees it.

"Dean, what happened to your face?"

Dean looks up from his food, his expression weird, his lips slightly parted. The bruise stands clearly against the pale skin of his left cheek, and an occasional ray of light that shines on him when the window curtain flutters illuminates his freckles, making them look like tiny suns floating near a black hole.

"Are you asking this for real?" It's Sammy, his voice hard, accusing. "You don't remember?!"

He ought to remember. He tries to. When was Dean hurt? Couldn't have been on a hunt; they didn't go on one for over a week now. And the bruise looks only a few hours old. So last night. But last night is a blur. They checked into the motel after lunch, he remembers that. Sammy had a new paperback he picked up at some gas station along the way, and Dean was sorting out the groceries they brought in. He remembers he went out, he wanted to see if there was a bar somewhere within walking distance. And he-

"You don't remember," Sam's voice is rising now, his usually sweet face twists with rage and – can it be? – pure hate. "You _hit_ him, and you don't even freakin' _remember_!"

He practically gawks at his youngest, because it can't be. It can't be him that gave Dean that bruise, because he was out, he was out at that bar, and-

All of the sudden last night comes flooding up into his consciousness and he cringes so hard his muscles nearly spasm. He remembers pacing around the motel room, waving the near-empty bottle of whiskey, he remembers screaming at the walls, _screaming_ , because the son of a bitch had killed his Mary, it _killed_ her, it burned her on the ceiling, and he is going to fucking _kill_ it, you hear?! And Dean had tried to take the bottle out of his hand and he-

"Oh, God," his head drops and his shaking hands cover his face. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, Jesus." Not just his hands, his whole body is shaking, and the bile rising in his throat has absolutely nothing to do with the hangover. Even with his eyes shut tight he can still see Sammy's blazing gaze and the black hole of a bruise on Dean's face, so dark next to the tiny suns of his freckles.

"Dad," he doesn't respond, not to such a soft, concerned tone. He deserves to be yelled at, rebuked, condemned. Hell, he deserves all the cuss words he never lets his sons utter in his presence. He doesn't deserve that gentle voice and gentle hands that are now touching him. "Dad, I'm fine. It doesn't hurt. See?"

He doesn't want to see. He just turns in his seat toward Dean that has come to stand by his side, wraps his arms around him and hugs him tight, burying his face into his son's shirt.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dean. Oh, God, I'm so sorry, son," the words come teary, mumbled, but Dean understands, and his arms slide around his shoulders and hug him back.

"It's okay," he whispers. "It's okay, Dad."

He inhales his son's scent, a scent of cheap motel soap and laundromat detergent and the faintest whiff of gunpowder from the morning before, when they pulled over at that abandoned field for some target practice. And he thinks about how this is all he has given his sons, cheap motel rooms and laundromats and guns, instead of little league and school and trick-or-treat. But how can you send your children to trick-or-treat when you know there are _real_ monsters out there, real monsters like the one that took their mother, his Mary-

He is crying now, because it has been eleven years, _eleven fucking years_ , and he's nowhere closer to finding the son of a bitch, and his boys had already lost their childhood along with their mother and their home, and he can't give it back to them, he can't give anything back. All he can do is plant black holes to eclipse those tiny, golden suns.

Dean leans closer, and he can feel his son's cheek resting on top of his head and his son's arms are around his shoulders and there isn't an ounce of resentment in Dean's touch, not even the tiniest bit. So he makes every effort to calm himself down, because if anybody should be comforting anybody, then it should be him comforting Dean; but it's just so easy to melt into his son's embrace, to pretend that he really does deserve it.

But he doesn't. So he pulls away, but gently enough, and holds Dean with his hands on the boy's arms and looks into his face. At fifteen, Dean is still young enough to have that childish sweetness to his features, but he can also see how those features are already starting to ease into adulthood. And for a brief moment he can clearly see how Dean would look like as a young man – not merely handsome but _beautiful_ , so beautiful his breath falters. He wants to hug Dean again, to hold on to him and never let go, but he doesn't.

He smiles at his son and brushes his fingers over the side of his face and through his spiky hair, and Dean smiles back tentatively. Another ray of sun slants through the curtains, making the specks of dust in its wake shine like minuscule dancing stars. But they are puny and pale compared to Dean's tiny suns, and John knows that even the real sun is puny and pale compared to the light of his son's heart, a light no black hole is powerful enough to overcast.

**Author's Note:**

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